Sarah Certa

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: It gives me great pleasure to present Sarah Certa's "Crazy Daisies," which was the winner of Big Lucks's first-ever SAVE YOUR FUCKING MONEY Contest. Our guest judge (who might or not be Amy McDaniel) said the following of "Crazy Daisies":

"I’ve never read a poem like this. As if by stealth, it seized me right away. I read and reread, and got sicker and sicker, and was more and more damned by the way the awful light moves through the stark, violent enjambment; the intimacy of abuse laced with seduction; the familiar scenes of a glittering city; and our extravagant, bloody, living history of rape, slavery, and war. This poem named after a flower, you will hardly stomach it, but you must."

I'm thrilled that (maybe) Amy picked this poem. Sarah is a brilliant poet, a staunch advocate for women's rights, and a kind, kind soul. Instead of taking the $162.35 prize for herself, Sarah elected to donate her prize to the Domestic Violence Relief Fund, an initiative that Big Lucks wholeheartedly supports.

We received over 110 submissions to this contest. Many of the submissions were amazing and will be appearing in future digital issues of Big Lucks. It was a huge success, and we'll be doing it again next year.

CRAZY DAISIES

There is nothing new about my sadness, these bagsof tears in my head no heavierthan all the hearts in allthe centuries of humans before me, all the mothersof all the sons in allthe wars, all the mothersof all the daughters, all the daughters, all the slaveson all the ships, all the girlsbeing trafficked tonight in citieswhere the lights look so pretty, like adolescent starsbuzzing above underground railroadsexcept the trainis going backwards, or just downinto hell, dressed upas a Mercedes, men’s wordswrapped in gold, honey, I’ll take careof you, don’t worry, sugar, you’re getting a new life, there is nothingnew about the yelling, the voiceso big there’s no roomfor you except in the corner, foldedlike a balding swaninto your naked self, all the corners, all theflowers to say I’m sorry, baby, I love you, they’re crazydaisies, I got themfor us because we’re crazylike that, he would say thingslike that, and there’s nothing newabout how I would throwmyself back into the hotsoft dark of his mouth, like a paddedroom with bars on the windows, my wristscuffed to the inside of his rib cage, I wasa prisoner and liked it sometimesbecause it meant I was safefrom the rest of the world, all the babiesbeat to death, anyonebeat to death, all the strangersin the alleys who could nevertouch me because he’d alwaysbe there, he was alwaysthere, in the morning, at dinner, always toastingto me and every momentworth knowing, all the beautifulsongs that spilled out of his mouth, I’d forgetthe bombs behind his eyes, his heart, that the sunis a bomb, how sometimesif you’re not white it’s illegalto want a better life orfood for your kids, how sometimesit doesn’t matter at all what your skin color is, sometimespeople just feel like killingother people or shooting airplanesfrom the sky, and there is nothingwe can do about thatexcept probably killsome more people. And I don’t wantto agree with that but latelyeven the wind is quiet. The curtainsin my bedroom barely move, like ghostswho don’t feel rightabout being ghosts anymore, all the breaththey saw escape me, either moaning orsobbing, hanging ontothe moaning, the diamonds, the goldcashmere scarf, the poems, I held ontothe good things because isn’t thatthe way to survive, to makea marriage work, you have to sacrifice, youhave to compromise, you have to try andtry harder? Yesterday I triedto get out of my head,but when I got outside I saw bodiesfalling like ash through the skyexcept faster of coursebecause they’re still bodies, and this isn’ta story, this is reallive footage of the world, yet when Igo out into the world, pumping gas and waitingin line at the grocery store, in the waiting roomat the doctor’s office, underthe same sky as always, I neversee anyone crying, which is a phenomenon, how most peopleseem to be doing okay, still believing in love andmore love, like they’ve neverbeen stabbed with a searingjagged-edge rod from the insideof their bellies to the outside and back inagain, watched their skinbe skinned and fed to them. At leastthat’s how it feelswhen I lie in bed and try to forgetthe sky all together, try to be onewith myself in this moment in this bed, this bed, this bedthe same bed where I laughed into his chestall November afternoon, then criedin the middle of the night because he wantedsex and I wasn’t wetenough in my sleep, he said whatthe fuck is wrong with you, why aren’tyou wet, don’t you love me, he said fix it, said fuckme, I need it, he said I love youforever, who put youtogether, you’re so perfect, he would cryabout the news, he would cryabout the raping, too, and turnto me and say, in a worldwithout promises, I need youto be my promise, he said, I promise, he said, his breathlike a sweet moth against my ear, I got you, I got you.

Sarah Certa was born in Germany in 1987. She is the author of the chapbooks RED PAPER HEART (Zoo Cake Press) and JULIET (I) (out from H_NGM_N in a few weeks!). Her first full-length poetry collection, Nothing To Do With Me, is forthcoming from University of Hell Press in spring 2015. She lives in Minnesota. Find more of her work online at sarahcerta.tumblr.com.